


Neither Here Nor There

by Knischick



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, M/M, Suicide, Vampire Mycroft, Vampire Sherlock, Were John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-18 13:25:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1430122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Knischick/pseuds/Knischick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>DI Lestrade investigates some vampire suicides, which may not be what they first appear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Neither Here Nor There

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work. I would appreciate any comments on how to better tag this. Also it may be updated painfully slow.

To the untrained eye, it would look like murder. Perhaps an occult sacrifice of sorts. The runes did look ominous and no twenty something woman should be able to shove that polished wooden spike that far down her own throat. But Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade knew it was suicide. And when a DC commented “So young.” He agreed. The woman had barely made it to fifty. The majority of vampire suicides investigated by the police were written off as accidents. Most were considerate enough to try to disguise their deaths as such. This young woman was not. Her short life must have been burdened with guilt because the runes covering her body begged for forgiveness. Greg stood a few feet from her corpse, hands in his pockets. He hadn’t had a suicide in probably three years, but when he got them he got a whole rash of them. He’d have to make sure to check up on Sherlock later. But he would be fine, the DI chided himself. John Watson had completely changed the younger Holmes life. Sherlock had a reason to live, to stay clean. But Lestrade still worried about him. And he’d have to remember to text Mycroft too, see if his people had come across anyone else.

He was chewing on his bottom lip and wondering which back alley shop the girl had found such an old holly stake in when he noticed the ring. An engagement ring. He sighed. Poor girl had gone and fallen in love with a human. Maybe a werewolf. And at an eternal age of probably twenty two, she’d likely been unable to handle his death or maybe he found out what she was and left her. Either way, his team was going to run this like a murder, so the identity of the fiancé would undoubtedly come up. Greg just had to make sure no one got charged for her death. In his entire career on the force only one person under his investigation had been charged for a vampire suicide. But Greg didn’t lose sleep about it; the man had gotten off for the murder of three women nine years before. 

Lestrade had his phone out to dial Mycroft when the black town car pulled up in front of him. So there was something more to this. “Perfect timing.” He said yanking the door open. The cool, dark leather interior was quite a contrast to the noon sun outside. Greg slid gratefully into the seat. Anthea didn’t look up from her phone. Normally he didn’t bother her, but for some reason he was in a chatty mood. “You know you’ve all but stopped kidnapping me since John showed up. I was starting to feel a little put out.” Anthea smiled at this but still didn’t look up. “Thanks to the werewolf it is no longer necessary for you to function as a go between for the Holmes brothers. Yours and Mr. Holmes’ relationship is now strictly business.” 

“How disappointing.” Greg said and it came out a bit more sincere than he’d been expecting. “I mean he’s not bad company once you get used to him. And I did enjoy commiserating about Sherlock. But I do that with John now anyway.” He trailed off. It would seem John Watson filled a lot of gaps.

Greg thought of his too quiet flat with its half unpacked boxes and perfectly clean kitchen. He just slept on the couch, when he slept at all. Take out containers filled his bin. He kept up his laundry with an almost absurd diligence, packing them back in his suitcase because he couldn’t be bothered to get a dresser. Or a bed. Or a table. His ex-wife had gotten everything. He didn’t mind really, nothing in the house had he considered his. It wasn’t until he was living alone that he had realized how much of a ghost he had been to her. The Yard was his life and when he was away from it he felt lost. Which meant he probably should put some wards up around his flat. He obviously didn’t have enough of a sense of ownership of it to keep a more stubborn sort of vampire out. And he did not need Sherlock waking him up at some ungodly hour in person. His incessant texts did that well enough. He watched Anthea’s fingers caress her phone. He had no doubt she could get into his flat too. Probably even with it warded. 

The car pulled to a stop in front of a large Victorian building. Greg looked at Anthea, puzzled. “This isn’t his office.”

“No it isn’t.” She said. 

“Well it isn’t his house either, or his flat or wherever it is he lives. Where are we?”

“The Diogenes Club.”

“The what club?”

“Diogenes. He’s had it since the seventies.”

“Which seventies?”

Anthea smiled at him. “Get out.” She said. “And don’t speak to anyone, for any reason. Just show the man your badge and follow him.”

He gave Anthea a little half salute and got out. The car pulled away. He turned to the Diogenes. It was intimidating to say the least. To someone about to go in anyway. He had a feeling that anyone walking past minding their own business would be able to ignore it. Impressive if examined, but easily looked over if you didn’t have reason to. Kind of like Mycroft. Greg grinned to himself. Yep. This was definitely the Mycroft of buildings. The heavy wooden door slid open easily and silently much to Greg’s surprise. It didn’t look capable of that much stealth. The lobby was dimly lit. There was a staircase to the right and two hallways to the left. The floor was green marble. Two portraits, one of Queen Victoria and one of Queen Elizabeth II hung above the squat, lion footed desk. The painfully thin man behind the desk looked Greg up and down slowly and disapprovingly. Two could play that game so Greg gave him his best cop scowl as he flipped open his badge. The secretary rolled his eyes at the scruffy detective and gestured for Greg to follow him. Before they left the lobby through one of the hallways the man turned and placed his index finger to his lips, silently shushing the visitor. Greg refrained from using a different finger to signal his understanding. 

The place was a maze, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to find his way out by himself. The skinny man finally stopped in front of a closed door and knocked gently. “Come in.” Said the muffled voice from the other side of the door. It seemed almost loud in the silence of the hallway. The man gestured at Greg to enter and then started back the way he came. “You know,” Greg sidled into the room. “You don’t have to kidnap me every time you want me to meet you some place. You could just text me directions like a normal person.” Mycroft frowned at him from behind the desk. “I have never had you kidnapped Inspector. You are merely escorted. Please sit down.” Mycroft gestured at the leather chair in front of his desk. Greg went and stood beside it, arms crossed. “Why am I here?” 

“Maria Huff.”

“Dead vampire, yeah, figured you be in touch about her.”

“There are two others. They have not yet been reported. What struck you about the girl?” Greg did sit down now. Mycroft folded his hands on the desk and waited. 

Greg was not theatrical like the Holmes brothers, but Mycroft knew from experience that he liked to get his thoughts in order when discussing cases. Almost like he was writing a report. Mycroft liked this about the detective. And Greg liked the fact Mycroft didn’t interrupt or scoff at him like Sherlock did. Greg began. “From a purely human perspective, the victim Maria Huff, twenty two year old white female, about 5’ 8”, probably ten stone. She was found in her living room by her neighbor one Mrs. Downing at eleven o’clock this morning. Maria normally came over to have tea with her. They also read the morning paper together. Mrs. Downing still had a key from when Maria had her water her plants when she was on a holiday a little while back. The woman found the victim on the floor of the living room, covered in blood written letters, with a stake shoved down her throat. Mrs. Downing screamed, alerting another neighbor, Gregory Long, who called the police. We got there just a little bit before noon. There is no evidence of a struggle, despite the violent nature of the death. Her left hand had been lacerated across the palm, likely where the blood for the lettering came from. The lettering appears to be some form of runes. Photographs are being sent for analyzes, as well as a blood sample to determine if she was drugged. We are also looking into known associates. The victim was wearing an engagement ring, but Mrs. Downing claims to have never seen it, nor a boyfriend or girlfriend around before.” Greg paused. 

“And your professional opinion from a vampire perspective?” Mycroft prodded. 

“Well she killed herself obviously. But the runes? I recognized some of them as some sort of forgiveness prayer. Some of them I’ve never seen before, or just don’t remember. But it’s weird. I’ve never had anyone covered in runes before. Two or three with a little blessing over the heart or on a wrist, but she was just covered with them. I think she felt really bad about something she did to this boyfriend. My guess is he left her when she told him what she was. Or maybe she feels responsible for something bad happening to him, maybe he got killed or sick? All the whys are just guessing until we identify the fiancé.” 

Mycroft nodded and opened a file. “I agree that she killed herself. The reasoning behind it, I’m afraid is not quite as simple as lost love.” He placed two photographs in front of Greg. In one a woman, probably in her early forties was laying on white carpet wearing a summer dress, bloody runes covered her body and a holly wood stake was forced down her mouth. In the other, a man in his mid-thirties was wearing track pants and also sported the runes and the stake. “All three deaths seem voluntary.” Mycroft said. “But the dramatic way they chose to end themselves is concerning. As soon as these bodies are found, the media is going to have a field day about Satanists and serial killers. We need to know why they killed themselves the way they did, and stop whatever is influencing them to do it in such an elaborate manner.” 

“This is kind of like the cabbie case, isn’t it?” Greg mused. “Except I can’t think of any way someone could choose a correct stake.” 

“Yes it is. However, the influence is not necessarily a person; it could be an event in the news that sparked a memory. Anniversaries tend to cause a rise in suicides. It’s just the showiness of the deaths that concern me.” Greg nodded to himself. “Yeah. If you’ll give me the addresses of the other two victims I’ll have the League check it out, and then we’ll compare notes with my crime scene. See if we can’t find a connection.” Mycroft pursed his lips. “If you could keep my brother out of this business I would greatly appreciate it. He and the League, well…” 

Greg grinned. “It’s not much worse than how he is with the Yard.”

“At the Yard he has you. And John has never associated with the League before. They have a tendency to call Sherlock worse things than ‘freak.’ I very much doubt that the good doctor would respond well to that.” 

“Yeah well, if it does come to calling in Sherlock I’m still his official handler and I will do my very best to keep John from knocking someone out.”

“I thought you retired.” Mycroft said with a hint of a smile. Greg smiled back at the ginger vampire. “In all capacities except Sherlock wrangling. That’s a lifetime deal apparently.” Mycroft sighed. “It is indeed.” He said almost darkly. 

“But at least John takes almost the full brunt of it nowadays.” Greg said. “I haven’t found you little brother tossing my office once since he moved in.” 

“John has been a godsend, but I fear Sherlock has come to rely on him a little more than he should. It will completely wreck him when the werewolf dies.”

“Yeah, well he’s pretty fond of me too. And Mrs. Hudson. If we all go in the proper order, he’ll be a bit more prepared for it.” Greg regretted saying that as soon as it came out of his mouth. Sherlock was a vampire too. He was well accustomed to death. 

“He’s been ‘fond’ of other sets of humans before Inspector. John is different. I’m afraid you and the landlady are not.” Mycroft paused and looked intensely at Greg. The detective opened his mouth to say something but then Mycroft continued, his voice lighter. “It is quite possible your death will affect me a bit more than it will Sherlock. You are the newest liaison with the Yard for him, albeit one he respects more than most. For me you are an ally in protecting him, something I have never had before and you are the one who tipped the scales, finally forcing him to get off the drugs. And as important as John is, he will not work with me, his vision is clouded by my brother’s opinions. You and I have worked well together since the beginning, and you are more to me than my brother’s handler. You are one of the very, very few people I trust and can rely on, both personally and professionally. I will hate to lose that.” 

Greg did not know what to say. Mycroft Holmes would miss him? Greg had never entertained the thought. But he imagined that receiving backup after a literal century of fighting was much appreciated. “Um, yeah, it’s nice to have you around as well. Makes my day interesting on occasion. I enjoy your company actually. And I really wouldn’t be able to handle Sherlock without you.” Greg said this brokenly. Both men sat in the silence a moment. Finally Greg stood up. “Well I better go get the ball rolling.” 

“Indeed.” Mycroft said, suddenly focused on straightening the files on his desk. “Good afternoon Detective Inspector.”

“Afternoon Mr. Holmes.” Greg gave him a curt nod. “I expect I’ll be seeing you soon.” Greg strode to the door, then hesitated. Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him. Greg gave him a crooked smile. “Any chance you could direct me out?” 


End file.
